Corporate Salvage

The first thing I noticed about Mr. Calloway was his hands.

They were clean. Not just washed, but *clean*, the kind of clean that comes from soap that smells like synthetic lemon and water that runs clear from a tap. Nobody in the Lowtown markets had hands like that. Mine were a roadmap of scars and grease, the knuckles skinned raw from a stubborn bolt I'd wrestled off a dead generator an hour before.

He was standing in the doorway of my workshop, and he didn't belong there. His suit cost more than my entire inventory. Charcoal wool, tailored so precise it looked painted on. Silver cufflinks caught the dim light from my single working bulb. He looked like a museum piece someone had accidentally left in a junkyard.

"You're Elira," he said.

It wasn't a question. I didn't look up from the circuit board I was soldering. "Depends who's asking."

"I'm asking."

The solder smoked. I set down the iron and wiped my hands on my pants, which didn't help. "Then yeah. I'm Elira. And you're blocking my light."

He stepped inside. Just like that. No hesitation, no glance at the dark corners where I kept my more questionable merchandise, no flinch at the smell of ozone and old oil. He moved like someone who'd never had to check a room for exits.

"Adrian Calloway," he said, extending one of those clean hands.

I stared at it. "You gonna shake my hand or arrest me?"

"Neither." He dropped the hand. A flicker of something crossed his face. Amusement, maybe. Hard to tell with men who wore their expressions like expensive accessories. "I need your help."

That got my attention. Nobody came to Lowtown for help unless they were desperate or stupid. He didn't look either.

"I'm not a charity," I said.

"I'm not asking for charity." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a data chip. Standard corporate encryption, the kind that cost more than my monthly rent. "I'm asking for your expertise. And I'm willing to pay."

The chip glinted under the bulb. I crossed my arms and leaned back against my workbench, studying him. Mid-forties. Dark hair going silver at the temples. A face that had probably launched a thousand hostile takeovers. His eyes were the color of slate, and they hadn't left mine since he walked in.

"What kind of expertise?"

"Engineering. Specifically, reverse engineering." He paused. "And discretion."

"I don't know what you've heard, but I'm a scavenger. I fix things. Sometimes I sell things. I don't do corporate espionage."

"Neither do I." He set the chip on my workbench, right next to a rusted gear assembly. "This contains schematics for a prototype. It's been... compromised. I need someone who can identify the fault and correct it without involving my company's internal security."

I picked up the chip. It was warm from his pocket. "Why not use your own people?"

"Because my own people are the problem."

There it was. The first crack in that polished facade. Something moved behind his eyes, a shadow that didn't quite fit the tailored suit and the clean hands.

I should have said no. I had a rule about corporate jobs. They always ended badly. But the chip was warm in my palm, and my rent was three weeks late, and there was something about the way he'd said *my own people are the problem* that made me want to know more.

"Five hundred," I said. "Upfront. Another five when I find your fault."

"Done."

He didn't blink. Didn't negotiate. Just pulled a credit stick from his pocket and placed it on the bench beside the chip. I picked it up, checked the balance, and tried not to let my eyebrows climb into my hairline. Five hundred was a lowball. He'd paid it like it was nothing.

"Come back tomorrow," I said. "I'll have an answer."

"I'll come back in four hours."

"It's a prototype schematic. Could be a hundred thousand lines of code."

"Then you'd better get started." He turned toward the door, then stopped. "Ms. Elira."

"Just Elira."

"Elira." He said it like he was tasting the word. "I appreciate your help. Truly."

He left. The door swung shut behind him, and the workshop felt smaller somehow. Darker. I stood there for a long moment, holding the chip, listening to the distant hum of the city's dying infrastructure.

Then I got to work.

---

Four hours later, I had a headache and a bad feeling.

The schematics were for a neural interface, the kind that rich people used to control their home systems with a thought. Except this wasn't a home system. The architecture was military-grade, the kind of thing that could interface with weapons platforms, surveillance networks, entire city grids. And buried in the code, wrapped in three layers of encryption, was a subroutine that didn't belong.

I was still staring at it when the door opened again.

Calloway looked exactly the same. Same suit, same clean hands, same slate eyes. He'd probably stepped out of a private car and walked exactly twelve steps to my door, and the grime of Lowtown hadn't dared touch him.

"You found something," he said.

I didn't answer. I pulled up the code on my main screen, a cracked monitor I'd salvaged from a dead security terminal. The subroutine glowed green against the black.

"This isn't a fault," I said. "This is a backdoor. Someone embedded a remote access protocol in your prototype. They can trigger it whenever they want. Shut down the interface, override the user's commands, turn the whole system against them."

Calloway's expression didn't change. But his hands, those clean, manicured hands, curled into fists at his sides.

"Can you remove it?"

"Sure. But it'll leave traces. Whoever put this here will know it's gone."

"Good."

I turned to face him. "You want them to know?"

"I want them to panic." He stepped closer, and I caught the faint scent of something expensive, sandalwood and cedar, completely at odds with the oil and rust of my workshop. "I want them to make a mistake. And when they do, I'll be ready."

"Who's 'they'?"

He looked at me for a long moment. The bulb flickered overhead, and in that half-second of darkness, I saw something in his face I hadn't seen before. Not amusement. Not calculation. Something raw and tired, the kind of tired that came from fighting a war nobody else could see.

"My board of directors," he said. "Specifically, my vice president. She's been trying to force me out for six months. This is her endgame."

"And you're telling me this because..."

"Because you're not part of my world. You don't care about corporate politics or stock options or who sits in which office. You care about the work." He paused. "And because I need someone I can trust."

The word hung between us. *Trust.* In my experience, trust was just a story people told themselves before they stuck a knife in your back. But he was standing in my workshop, in the heart of Lowtown, with his expensive suit and his clean hands and his tired eyes, and he was asking me to believe him.

"Why me?"

"Because you're the best." He said it without flattery, just a statement of fact. "I've done my research. You were a lead engineer at Helix Corp before you disappeared. You designed half the systems that are still running in this city. And then you walked away."

I felt the old wound twinge. The one I'd buried under years of grease and salvage and survival. "I didn't walk away. I was pushed."

"I know." His voice was quiet. "I read the file."

Of course he did. Men like Calloway didn't come to Lowtown without a file. They didn't ask for help without knowing exactly who they were asking.

"You want me to fix your prototype," I said. "And then what?"

"Then I want you to come work for me. Full-time. A consultant's position, generous salary, full access to my company's resources." He paused. "And protection."

"Protection from what?"

"From whoever pushed you out of Helix Corp. Because they're still out there. And if they find out you're working for me, they'll come for you."

I should have said no. I should have taken the five hundred, finished the job, and sent him on his way. That was the smart play. That was the survivor's play.

But I looked at Adrian Calloway, standing in the wreckage of my workshop, and I saw something I recognized. A person who'd been backed into a corner and decided to fight instead of fold.

"Double the fee," I said.

"Done."

"And I want access to your security feeds. All of them. If someone's coming for me, I want to see them coming."

His lips curved into something that was almost a smile. "You drive a hard bargain."

"I've had practice."

He reached out, and this time I took his hand. His grip was firm, his palm warm against my calluses. The contact lasted a second longer than it should have. When he let go, I felt the absence like a missing tooth.

"I'll send a car for you tomorrow," he said. "Eight AM."

"I don't do mornings."

"You will."

He left. The door swung shut. I stood there in the flickering light, holding the chip that had started all of this, and I wondered what I'd just agreed to.

The subroutine on my screen blinked green. A backdoor. A trap. A war I'd just enlisted in.

And somewhere in the city above, in a tower of glass and steel, Adrian Calloway was already planning his next move. I could feel it. The same way I could feel a storm coming, deep in my bones, before the first cloud appeared on the horizon.

I turned back to my workbench and picked up the soldering iron.

Four hours until tomorrow. Might as well get started.